


Cool Walls, Warm Thighs

by thusspakekate



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:52:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thusspakekate/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione isn't pleased to learn that Harry and Draco have a new house guest. There is just something about Pansy Parkinson that drives Hermione crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cool Walls, Warm Thighs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvsev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsev/gifts).



“Granger,” Malfoy said coolly, his arms crossed as he stood in the doorway blocking her entrance.

 

“Malfoy,” Hermione returned the terse greeting, trying her hardest to match the level of disdain that dripped from Draco's voice. But she could feel the corners of her lips twitching, trying their damnedest to break free and form a grin.

 

“You're terrible at that you know,” he rolled his eyes and stepped to the side. “Come in before you catch a cold.”

 

Hermione stepped into the foyer of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. She cast a quick drying charm and spelled away the rain that had managed to stick to the fabric of her coat. It had been a rainy start to spring that year, but Hermione didn't mind. The grey skies and light drizzle of the past week fit her mood; it was better than being berated by overly optimistic sunshine.

 

“Harry's in the dining room,” Draco informed her as he hung her coat on the rack by the door.

 

It had been almost five years since that Sunday in May when Harry burst through the floo at the Burrow with a wide-eyed and obviously reluctant Draco in tow. Hermione wasn't surprised that he chose the traditional Sunday supper at the Weasleys' to announce his relationship with Draco. Best to get it all over at once, she supposed. It was very Harry after all. She hadn't even been surprised to find out that they were seeing each other; she'd had her suspicions for while. What had surprised her though, was that their relationship didn't become the spectacular train wreck she'd predicted. I give it a month, she had whispered to Ron that day. He had laughed and bet her a week.

 

But here they were going on five years later and Harry and Draco's relationship was the most stable thing in Hermione's life. Her own relationship with Ron had imploded the previous year. After the war ended, they had gotten together just like everyone had expected. The beginning had been wonderful. They felt alive and free, hopeful about their future for the first time in years. But as the world settled down into post-war stability, so did they. Their comfortable routine soon became oppressive in its predictability.

 

They had the same fights over and over—some they'd been having since their time at school and new ones that just added to the list of “things they just couldn't discuss.” Ron's Auror training kept him away for extended periods of time and Hermione threw herself into her work at the Ministry. It hadn't been much help though; bureaucracy offers little in the way of distraction.

 

When Ron came home one gloomy Friday afternoon and suggested they take a break, Hermione felt nothing but relief, as though she finally let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. After three months apart, they shared a bittersweet cup of coffee at a muggle diner and agreed there was no point going back. Their relationship had stagnated and neither could find the will or energy to jumpstart it again. Four months later, she'd actually been happy for him when she heard he'd gotten back together with Lavender Brown.

 

Harry had Draco. Ron had Lavender. Ginny had a string of fit Brazilian quidditch players. And Hermione had her work.

 

It was too bad that she fucking hated her job.

 

Hermione walked down the familiar hallway and found Harry in the dining room, carefully setting the table. She noted he was doing it the muggle way, which meant that he was nervous.

 

“Four places? Will someone be joining us then?” Hermione asked casually as she frowned at the table in front of her. She had been having dinner at Harry and Draco's every other Friday since her break up with Ron and there had never once been another guest invited.

 

Harry looked up at her in surprise. “Oh hey, Hermione. Didn't hear you come in.” His eyes dropped back to the table. “Yeah, there is. Hope you don't mind?”

 

“No, just surprised is all,” Hermione said, although she did feel a little put out. This was their special thing and she didn't particularly want to share it with some random stranger. She knew it was childish, but she couldn't help it. Her dinners with Harry and Draco were one of the few things in her dull life that she looked forward to.

 

“A friend of mine is in from abroad,” Draco said as he came into the room, two bottles of dusty wine in hand. “I brought these over from the cellar at the Manor. My friend has rather discerning taste,” he added when he noticed Hermione eyeing them suspiciously.

 

Harry snorted.

 

“Why Draco, I didn't know you had any friends,” Hermione said sweetly, giving Draco her best shit-eating smile. Sometime over the course of the past five years, their constant snarking had turned to gentle needling. Teasing seemed to be Draco's preferred form of communication and Hermione made sure to give as good as she got.

 

“She's an old friend,” Draco said with a laugh. “I find old friends are a lot like wrackspurts— they show up unannounced and are impossible to get rid of.”

 

As if on cue, the fireplace at the far end of the room roared to life. Brilliant green light illuminated the room. A short, black-haired witch wearing a tight black trench coat and large sunglasses stumbled through the flames. Overladen with large shopping bags, she seemed to have trouble finding her balance.

 

“Fucking hell,” she grumbled as she grabbed the mantelpiece to steady herself. “Remind me not to floo in stilettos again.”

 

“Pansy,” Draco said, turning to her with one eyebrow raised, “are you drunk?”

 

Hermione felt her stomach drop. Pansy. Pansy bloody Parkinson. So that was Draco's “old friend.” She hadn't seen Pansy since shortly after the war. A lot of people who found themselves on the wrong side of the war—or at least with enough connections to those who were on the wrong side—had gone abroad after Voldemort's demise. _Good riddance to bad rubbish,_ Hermione had thought at the time. Now that she was so close to Draco she cringed at the unkindness of that thought, but Parkinson was another story all together. There hadn't been a psychotic mass murderer staying in her guest house. She had no excuse; Pansy's bitchiness was congenital.

 

“No, Draco, I am not drunk,” Pansy replied shortly as she set her bags on the floor and toed off her shoes with a relieved groan. “Although I did meet up with Daphne for a late lunch and you know how she is—prefers to drink her meals as opposed to eat them. But don't worry, I had a fruit cup,” she quickly added, waving her hand airily in dismissal.

 

Draco snorted and moved to gather her things. “Come on, lets take these up to your room. Dinner's almost ready.”

 

“Oh,” Pansy said, looking up in surprise and pulling off her ridiculously large sunglasses. Apparently she hadn't noticed that there were other people in the room with them. Hermione had to fight back an eye roll. _Self-centered as always, I see._

 

Hermione watched Pansy's dark eyes dart around the room and land squarely on her. “Granger,” Pansy said with a small bow of her head that was eerily reminiscent of Draco's earlier mock greeting. Slytherins must have taken a special class on how to greet people politely without actually making them feel welcome.

 

“Parkinson,” Hermione returned the courtesy, although her eyes fell to Harry, who was pointedly studying the wood grain of the dining room table.

 

Pansy bent over and collected her discarded shoes. “I've got it, darling,” she said to Draco as she took her shopping back from him. “Let me just run upstairs and slip into something more comfortable. Then we can have dinner. I'm sure we all have a lot of catching up to do,” she added with a wry smile as her gaze fell back to Hermione.

 

Hermione stiffened, feeling slightly unnerved by the way Parkinson was appraising her. Judging her, no doubt. She suddenly wished she'd gone home and changed out of her dull work robes before coming over.

 

After Pansy had disappeared into the hall, Harry let out a small chuckle. “Slip into something more comfortable? Think she's going to try and seduce us all?”

 

“I heard that, Potter!” a shrill voice floated into the room from the hall. “You should be so lucky.”

 

xxx

 

“Ok, maybe I was a little drunk,” Pansy admitted with a groan as she flopped onto the sofa in Harry and Draco's sitting room. Hermione bit her tongue to stop herself from informing the presumptuous woman that that was Harry and Draco's seat. They always sat there together while the three of them had their drinks after dinner. Hermione sat in her usual seat, but Pansy's reclining form had displaced the two men. And it was _their_ sofa to begin with.

 

Hermione seemed to be the only one bothered by this and decided it was wise to keep her thoughts to herself. Dinner had actually gone off without incident and she knew Harry would be grateful if she and Parkinson could continue the cool civility they'd maintained throughout the meal.

 

“Up,” Draco said, nudging Pansy's outstretched legs with his knees. Hermione thought he was asking her to sit up and make room, but was surprised to see Pansy lift her long legs in the air. Draco ducked below them and sat himself at the far end of the sofa. He caught Pansy's ankles and arranged her feet on his lap with a gentle pat. Harry settled on the floor next to Draco, his back against the sofa, his head resting gently against Draco's knee.

 

From her position on the chair, Hermione studied the strange tableau and wondered how many times the three of them had found themselves in this particular arrangement since Pansy had come to visit. It wouldn't surprise her to find that Parkinson had just come in and taken over the house as if it was hers. The woman had always been a bully.

 

“Draco,” Hermione heard Pansy say. She looked over to see the other woman wiggling her toes in Draco's face and pouting. “Please?”

 

Draco rolled his eyes at her, but smiled indulgently. He wrapped his fingers around her offered foot and began to knead the arch absently. Was Parkinson really lounging around of his furniture, demanding a foot rub? _Merlin, the nerve of that woman._

 

Hermione caught Harry's eye and gave him a pointed, questioning look. He craned his neck to look at what Hermione was eyeing him about, but when he turned back to her his eyes were full of laughter. “Slytherins,” he mouthed with a shrug.

 

Normally, Hermione would spend this time chatting with Harry and Draco about their plans for the upcoming week, her frustrations at work, and how they all desperately wanted a holiday. Parkinson's presence made Hermione reluctant to discuss anything of importance—or, if she were honest, anything at all. So she sat in her usual chair and drank slowly from the tumbler of firewhiskey in her hand. Harry's eyes began to droop as he relaxed against Draco's leg.

 

A quiet, feminine chuckle broke the stillness. Although Hermione was just thinking of how uncomfortable it felt to sit there without talking, she resented that Parkinson was the one to break the silence.

 

“I was just thinking,” Pansy began, her voice wistful and light. “Remember when we were engaged, Draco?”

 

Harry's eyes snapped open at that.

 

“You were—what?!” Hermione asked in surprise, momentarily forgetting her resolution to not engage Parkinson in conversation for the rest of the evening. “You never told me that, Draco. Harry, did you know about this?”

 

“Calm down,” Draco gave a dismissive wave. “It was hardly serious; we were teenagers.”

 

“It most certainly was serious and you know it,” Pansy said with a pout. “Draco was going to buy me a ring so obscene it'd make the muggle Queen cry” she explained with a nostalgic air. “We were going to have a lavish wedding that would be covered in every Wizarding paper on the continent. Then, we were just going to sit in Malfoy Manor, counting our galleons and laughing at our inferiors until we grew old and wrinkled. Draco even tried to draft his own marriage contract in fifth year!” Pansy laughed again and wiggled her toes in Draco's hand. “We were entirely serious about it. Had our whole futures mapped out, didn't we darling?” Pansy gave a sad little laugh and sank further into the sofa. “Look at us now,” she mused.

 

Draco had turned slightly pink and Harry looked as though he was biting back his instinct to tease his boyfriend for his adolescent obsession with power and fortune, but Hermione didn't find anything amusing about Pansy's stroll down memory lane. She knew that there was no chance that Parkinson could come between Harry and Draco, it didn't even seem like she wanted to, but the fact remained that she was in Harry's home talking about her relationship with his lover. If Harry wasn't outraged by it, Hermione would be so on his behalf.

 

“Why are you even here, Parkinson?” Hermione asked. She hoped her tone expressed the fiery dislike currently thrumming through her body.

 

Pansy blinked, then shot a desperate look in Draco's direction. “I don't know what you mean,” she answered lamely.

 

“You. Here. In England. More specifically in Harry's home. Why are you here?” Hermione demanded again.

 

It was Hermione's turn to avoid making eye contact with Harry.

 

“Had to leave France for a while,” Pansy answered with a shrug, wrapping her arms around herself defensively.

 

“Got run out of France as well, then?” Hermione snapped. “Hope the French haven't started celebrating yet. You always seem to crawl back, don't you?”

 

“Hermione!” Harry nearly yelled. “Stop it.”

 

“But Harry!” she cried indignantly, “Can't you see what she's doing? How can you just let her come into your home, eat your food, lounge about on your furniture, and talk about her past with your boyfriend.” She turned pleading eyes to her best friend, hoping he would see the altruism behind her cruelty. Harry wanted to see the best in everyone, it was both his best and worst quality. But sometimes he needed someone to remind him that some people are just rotten to the core. “I just want to know why she's here, what she's playing at.”

 

“My name may not be on the title, but this is very much my home as well,” Draco informed Hermione, his usual cool tone taking on a slight edge. “Pansy is a guest in our home, as—need I remind you—are you. I don't care if we invite Fenrir bloody Greyback for tea, you don't disrespect our guests in our home.”

 

“Stop Draco, it's fine,” Pansy said quietly as she untangled herself from him and hauled herself up from the sofa. “Granger's right, anyway. I'm not quite sure why I'm here either.”

 

Draco grabbed Pansy's hand and gave her a sad smile. “You're here to...” he paused, searching for the correct word, “to recover.”

 

“Oh Merlin, it's not as serious as all that” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Either way, I'm going to bed now.” She held up her hands as Draco began to protest. “It's fine darling, really, I'm fine.”

 

With a swift kiss on Draco's forehead and a ruffle of Harry's hair, Pansy made her leave. She spared one last glance as she left the room. Locking eyes with Hermione, she gave a small nod and quirked her lips. “Interesting to see you again, Granger.”

 

xxx

 

Hermione took a steadying breath and gripped the bottle of wine tighter in her hands. It was two weeks after the disastrous evening with Harry, Draco, and their new house guest. She'd had a long conversation with Harry the next day and was now positively beside herself with shame and embarrassment over her behavior. If Harry had decided to forgive Parkinson for her actions during the war and make a space for her in his life, then the least Hermione could do as his friend was respect that. Harry was no longer the skinny, awkward teenager bumbling his way through adolescence and a war. He didn't need Hermione to keep him safe anymore. But old habits die hard and she couldn't help but want to protect him in anyway she could.

 

Hermione steeled her resolve as she grasped for the doorknocker and announced her presence with three authoritative taps. She was going to do the adult thing and apologize to Parkinson. She was going to put the past in the past and give that pug-faced tart a chance. She was going to do it for Harry.

 

Long moments passed with no answer. Just as Hermione was about to knock again, the door opened a few inches and Pansy's face emerged from the crack.

 

“Granger?” she asked, her face scrunched in confusion.“What are you—oh, it's Friday, isn't it?” She stepped back and opened the door wider. “Um, come in, I guess.”

 

Hermione stepped into the dim foyer and immediately sensed that something was wrong. The house was dark and quiet, there was no smell of cooking, and Pansy Parkinson was wearing sweatpants.

 

“I don't think there's going to be any dinner tonight,” Pansy said quietly as she stared at her feet.

 

“Why? What's wrong?” Hermione asked, growing alarmed. Without thinking, she pulled her wand from the pocket of her coat and shrunk the bottle of wine down. The wine went into her pocket, but her wand stayed in her hand.

 

“Draco and Harry had a terrible row this afternoon. Merlin, Granger, it was awful.” Pansy explained with a groan. “I could hear them through the muffliato I cast on myself. Harry stormed out about an hour ago, I don't know where he's gone. Draco's locked himself in his office and won't let me in.” She bit her lip worriedly and Hermione noticed that her lips already looked well-chewed. “I don't know what to do,” Pansy added helplessly. “Draco wont tell me what's happened.”

 

Hermione cast a worried glance in the direction of Draco's office and made a quick mental list of the places Harry might go when upset. “What were they fighting about?” she asked.

 

“Circe only knows,” Pansy answered, throwing her arms up with tired exasperation. “I was trying not to listen, but they were so loud. I only caught bits and pieces here and there. Trust and love and all the usual nonsense. Lovers' spats rarely end where they begin, do they?”

 

“No, I guess not.” Hermione agreed morosely. Not like she'd know really. It had been a long time since she'd had a lover to quarrel with.

 

“There's nothing to eat, but I can make you some tea?” Pansy offered. It was meant as a statement, but it came out as a question.

 

Hermione blinked. She'd much rather go find Harry, but Harry might not want to be found. And she had resolved to try and get on better with Parkinson. They could have a cup of tea without hexing each other, couldn't they?

 

“Yeah, sure. Okay,” Hermione said, trying to convince herself it was a good idea even as she agreed.

 

Pansy led the way down the stairs into the basement kitchen and set about making tea without a word. Unsure what to do, Hermione sat down at the table and began to trace her fingers over the knots in the old, dark wood.

 

When the awkward silence became too much, Hermione took a deep breath. “Look, Parkinson, I wanted to apologize. About what I said the other night.”

 

“Don't worry about it,” Pansy replied briskly as she set two mugs on the table and began to root around the cupboards for the sugar. “It's fine.”

 

Hermione reached over and dragged a mug towards her. It wasn't until the hot liquid splashed out of the sides that she realized her hands were shaking. “It's not though. I was having a bad day and I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that. It was rude and you didn't deserve it.”

 

Pansy gave a long-suffering sigh as she spooned two large scoops of sugar into her mug. “Trust me Granger, I've heard worse. Harry told me he didn't warn you I'd be here beforehand. He thought you wouldn't come round if you knew. So I'm really not surprised by what happened. But if you insist on unburdening your conscience, then fine. I'll accept your apology.”

 

The women exchanged small smiles. Hermione's was nervous, Pansy's was forced.

 

Unwilling to go back to the awkward silence of before, Hermione cleared her throat. “Can I ask though, in all seriousness, what brought you back?”

 

“There was someone...” Pansy began, staring hard at her mug as though the cheap and chipped ceramic held the answer, “...back in France. I thought we were forever.” She looked up suddenly, catching Hermione's eyes and holding her stare. Pansy's lips twisted into a wry smile, but Hermione could see the sadness hiding behind her eyes. “I was wrong,” she finished simply and with a shrug.

 

Of all the reasons Hermione would have guessed that Parkinson was back in England, nursing a broken heart was not one of them. She was surprised to find that the woman sitting across the table from her even had one. In the dim light of the kitchen, she looked small and weary. Dark bags haunted her eyes and her hair lay flat and limp, as though it hadn't been washed in days. Was this the same hard-faced and mean-spirited girl she'd known at school? Had the years softened her or had she just hidden her vulnerability beneath smirks and snickers?

 

“I'm sorry, that's horrible.” Hermione offered, realizing belatedly that she'd taken too long to respond. She hoped she sounded sincere. “Do you know how long you plan to stay?”

 

Another sigh, “I don't quite know. Until Draco and Harry get tired of me, I guess.”

 

“If that were the case, you'd have left the moment you arrived” a voice came from behind Hermione.

 

Draco was standing in the entryway to the kitchen and he looked horrible. Dark bags under red, puffy eyes, hair standing on end, shirt and trousers uncharacteristically wrinkled. He tried to give a smile to match his own joke, but it failed to reach his eyes and only made him look even more miserable.

 

Hermione heard the sound of wood scraping against tile and saw flash of white, grey, and black streak past her. Pansy had bolted from her seat and thrown her arms around Draco's waist. Hermione watched in fascination as Draco returned the embrace, resting his pointed chin on the top of Pansy's head. They held on to each other tightly, silently.

 

The moment ended and they broke apart reluctantly. Pansy took Draco by the hand and herded him towards the table, forcing him into the chair next to her's. She pushed her mug of tea in front of him. “Drink this, darling. Two sugars, just how you like.”

 

He mumbled a quiet thanks and wrapped his hands around the mug. Warm steam drifted up undisturbed.

 

“Sorry about dinner,” Draco said quietly, not looking up. It took Hermione a moment to realize he was speaking to her. “I would have owled, but I...forgot.”

 

“It's all right,” Hermione smiled although Draco wouldn't see it.

 

Pansy's hand disappeared under the table, no doubt to give Draco's knee a reassuring squeeze. His hand fell to his lap as well and Hermione stopped to wonder if they were holding hands. And if so, did they do that often?

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Pansy asked hesitantly.

 

Draco shook his head but answered anyway. “He's leaving me,” he said, hard resolution in his voice.

 

Hermione gasped, feeling as though she'd just been kicked in the stomach.

 

Harry and Draco fought occasionally, like every couple did, but she hadn't seen this coming. Their relationship had always been hard, but the fact they made it work despite their past, the media attention, and their fundamental personality differences was an inspiration. Hermione felt that if they could overcome those obstacles and still make it work, surely there was hope for her yet. She didn't realize until that moment just how much their relationship meant to her, how much she needed them to be together.

 

Pansy didn't gasp, her mouth didn't fall open in shock. Instead, she fixed Draco with a bored stare. “Oh, don't be so melodramatic, Draco. Harry isn't going to leave you. He loves you and you know it. If I had a galleon for every time you claimed Harry was going to leave you after some silly argument, I'd have... at least 10 galleons.”

 

Pansy turned to catch Hermione's gaze. Hermione furrowed her brows in worry, but Pansy rolled her eyes.

 

“It's different this time,” Draco argued weakly, his voice so small and broken that Hermione had to strain to catch his words. Something in his tone must have alarmed Pansy, because her expression immediately darkened with concern.

 

“What happened, darling? Talk to me.” Pansy asked, scooting her chair towards Draco. The bored indifference was gone, replace by genuine concern and worried eyes. Her other hand disappeared beneath the table.

 

Draco looked up. His eyes flickered between Pansy and Hermione, his indecision clear.

 

“I should go,” Hermione said, feeling like an interloper. She'd become quite close to Draco over the past few years, but she could tell this was Pansy's department. Perhaps she could find Harry and see how he was doing with it all.

 

“No, stay,” Draco sighed, holding his free hand up to stop her from rising out of her chair completely. “You're going to find out either way. Better to hear it first hand than through some horrible gossip,” he added bitterly, casting a side-eyed glance at Pansy, who gave him an affronted look.

 

Hermione nodded and lowered herself back into her seat.

 

“What makes you say Harry is going to leave you?” Pansy asked. “Not that I believe it for a moment.”

 

“I was going to take our winter coats to the cleaners before I put them away for the season,” Draco began, staring hard at the hands in his lap. “I found a slip of paper in Harry's pocket. A floo address, written on a napkin. I called Theo and had him trace it. I know I shouldn't have, but I was just...I just knew.”

 

The room was heavy with implication. Two forgotten cups of tea sat cooling on the table. Hermione and Pansy shared a worried look when Draco failed to continue.

 

Pansy's voice was soft, “And who did they belong to?”

 

“Another man.” The words choked in Draco's throat. “Some man called Wisteria. Frank Wisteria.” The name meant nothing to Hermione, but she saw a spark of recognition in Pansy's eyes. “I confronted Harry about it this afternoon. He said I had invaded his privacy and accused me of not trusting him, but can you blame me? Another man's floo on a fucking napkin,” he finished with emphasis. “He went on and on about the need for trust and all that rubbish, but he refused to tell me who this fucking Frank person is. Why would he hide it if he had no reason to? He's cheating on me, I know it.”

 

Pansy pushed Draco's messy fringe away from his brow bone. She cradled his face and stroked his tear-tracked cheek with her thumb. Draco leaned into the tender touch. Hermione found herself fascinated by the small ways in which the two communicated without words. She and Harry had similar non-verbal gestures, but Draco and Pansy seemed much more tactile.

 

When she did speak, the casual confidence had returned to Pansy's voice. “He wouldn't do that to you, love. I know it. He loves you too much. And besides, he's just not the type.”

 

“Excuse me if I don't trust your authority on this one,” Draco snapped. “You didn't think Colette was the type either, did you?”

 

Pansy recoiled as though she'd been slapped. She pulled her hands away from Draco and wrapped them around her chest, turning away from him with a pout that was more sincere than theatrical. “There's no need to be cruel,” she said in a tight voice.

 

Draco sank. He brought his elbows to the table and rested his head in his hands. Hermione noticed something wet fall from his face and hit the table with a splash. “I'm sorry Pans, I didn't mean to.”

 

Pansy had turned in her chair, facing away from Draco. Her head was tilted back, eyes toward the ceiling and blinking rapidly. “It's fine,” she said in a voice that was anything but.

 

Hermione sat back and tried to shrink into her chair. The pair seemed to have forgotten her presence and she would have given anything for the ability to silently apparate out of the room. She definitely felt like an interloper now. She wasn't even sure what they were talking about anymore, but she knew it probably wasn't something she was supposed to know.

 

“Draco, listen to me,” Pansy continued after a tense moment. She turned back towards him, dry eyed and steady breathed. “I am sure that this is a misunderstanding. In fact, I am positive about it. Harry is not cheating you on and he's not going to leave you.” She placed one hand on the table next to Draco's elbow. He eyed it for a moment then placed his own on top of hers, threading their fingers together. “I can't tell you how I know, but you must believe me.”

 

Draco didn't respond, but Hermione saw him squeeze Pansy's hand. It must have been enough of a reaction for her. She leaned over and kissed his cheek softly. “Come on then, let's get you to bed.”

 

Draco nodded and stood up slowly. He smiled weakly at Hermione, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. Hermione returned the smile but said nothing. She wasn't sure which of them was more uncomfortable.

 

“Go on up and take a shower, you look like hell.” Pansy told him as she levitated the tea cups to the sink. “I want to speak with Granger for a moment.”

A pale blond eyebrow quirked and Pansy returned it with an arched brow of her own. “It's nothing that concerns you, darling. I need to ask her about womanly things— menstruation and childbirth, that sort of stuff,” she said with a wrinkle of her nose. Hermione thought the expression was rather cute on Parkinson. It made her normally harsh features look young and playful. “I'll be up to tuck you in as soon as we're done.”

 

Draco shook his head, but the corners of his mouth quirked in amusement. “Sorry again,” he said, turning to Hermione, “about dinner. And that you had to see all of this...” he added with a grimace, waving his hand vaguely at the side of the table he and Pansy had been sitting on.

 

“Oh, please don't apologize,” Hermione said. “All I care about is that you and Harry are all right.”

 

“Me too,” Draco said with a tight smile. He turned and left the room quietly.

 

When they could hear Draco walking on the floor above them, Pansy whipped around to face Hermione. “I need to know where Harry is,” she said matter-of-factly.

 

“What? Why?” Hermione asked, slightly startled by Pansy's rapid transition for warm and comforting to cool and business-like.

 

“So I can can go sort this,” she answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I swear, sometimes I wonder how those two managed to stay together this long without my help, thick as they both are.”

 

“I don't understand, what are you going to do? You don't really think that Harry is cheating, do you?” Hermione asked, thoroughly confused and still a bit panicked.

 

Pansy gave another of her patented long-suffering sighs. “No Granger, of course he's not. I'm surprised you'd even believe that. Besides, I know Frank Wisteria. Well, not personally, but I know of him.”

 

“Well? Who is he?” Hermione demanded after a few moments passed and she realized Pansy wasn't going to elaborate.

 

“I can't tell you. Well, I could. But that would ruin the surprise. Trust me on this one, everything is going to be fine. But I need to find Harry and talk some sense into him. Or beat it into him. Whichever is easier.”

 

Hermione crossed her arms. She didn't like being kept out of the loop, especially about things that involved Harry. She was the person that Harry came to when he needed relationship advice, and she didn't fancy Parkinson swanning off and taking over her job.

 

“You keep telling everyone to trust you on this, but I don't see why I would. Sorry, but you just don't strike me as the trustworthy sort.”

 

Pansy's eyes flashed dangerously for a moment. But when she answered, her voice was calm. “I understand why you'd say that and I probably wouldn't trust me either if I were you, but this is Draco we're talking about here. I only have his best interests at heart.”

 

“I didn't know you two were still so close. He never really talks about you,” Hermione said lightly, hoping to wound the other woman. Because here Parkinson was again, showing up out of nowhere and insinuating herself in other people's lives. Bossy and pushy and self-fucking-centered as ever. “I was surprised to find that you still keep in contact, he's done a lot to try and clean up his reputation, you know. Perhaps that's why he never mentions you, he's too ashamed.”

 

“Draco and I aren't the type of friends who need to have dinner together every two weeks to prove to ourselves that we still care,” Pansy bit out scathingly. “I know all about how you and Potter and Weasley spent seventh year, I've read all the bloody books they've written. But you don't know anything about what happened to Draco and me—what happened to us, the things we saw.” Pansy took a step towards Hermione, who took and instinctive step back. Noticing her folly, Hermione lifted her chin in challenge. She wasn't about the let Parkinson bully her again. She was older now—stronger, more confident. She could surely hold her own.

 

But Pansy pushed on undeterred. She took another step forward, her words tumbling out quickly. “All those horrible things you were out there trying to fight, all those things that lurked in the shadows and haunted your nightmares...we lived with them, Granger. Quite literally in Draco's case,” she added with a bitter laugh. The angry excitement in her voice grew with each sentence, and the air in the kitchen crackled with energy. “They weren't abstract concepts of evil, childhood monsters that went bump in the night. They were in our faces, in our homes, in our school. They were real, live, flesh and blood and they were terrible,” she said with a hiss.

 

“Did you know that Draco and I used to sleep together?” Pansy demanded. She stepped forward, her voice shaking with anger. Hermione felt her back make contact with the cold wall as she tried to maintain distance between them. “Every bloody night for almost two bloody years. He'd wake up from some terrible nightmare and sneak into my bed, shaking and crying and covered in a cold sweat. Every bloody night I'd hold him and tell him that everything was going to be all right. I was there for him when he had no one else. But now he does. Now he has someone who loves him and cares for him in a way that I never could, and you think I would...what? Sabotage that? If you don't trust me personally, that's fine. I could give a flying fuck about what you think about me. But don't you dare pretend that you know anything about Draco and me. Don't even think for a moment that you have the ability to understand the half of what we mean to each other. He's my best friend and I'd kill for him if I had to. So tell me where the fuck Potter is so I can sort. this. out.” she finished dangerously.

 

In that moment, Hermione believed her. She believed the smaller woman was capable of violent provocation. She'd been backed against the wall, pinned in place by Parkinson's burning glare and hands on her hips. She wasn't sure at what point in her speech Parkinson had reached out and touched her, but Hermione could feel her skin burning underneath Pansy's fingertips.

 

Hermione was breathing hard, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Part of her wanted Pansy to back off, but the other wanted her to push closer, to bridge the small gap between their bodies. She could feel the intensity radiating from Pansy and realized with shame that she wasn't scared of the other woman, she was aroused by her. For months she'd felt like she had emotionally flatlined, nothing had excited or interested or scared or tickled or warmed her. Everything she'd done, everyone she'd met, had elicited the same stagnant feeling of indifference and ennui. But here, pressed against the wall by a former classmate whose name she would have spit at hearing just a few weeks before, she felt something besides boredom and indifference. She felt alive. After months of nothing, the intensity of her reawakening was almost too much. She screwed her eyes shut and pressed back harder against the wall.

 

Pansy moved closer, pushing her body against Hermione's. A firm thigh slid between her own and she could feel hot breath ghosting against her neck. Hermione silently prayed that the whimper she'd heard hadn't been from her, but she knew it was.

 

“Granger, just tell me where he'd go,” Pansy breathed into her ear.

 

Hermioned flagged. She could feel her strength giving way and allowed herself to be supported by the weight of Pansy's body pressed against her. With a sigh, she told Pansy the names of Harry's favorite pubs.

 

xxx

 

_“Granger! Granger! Granger!”_

 

Hermione woke to the sound of her name being shrieked. The voice sounded distant, more impatient than hysterical. Throwing off the last vestiges of sleep, Hermione rolled gracelessly from her bed and padded down the hallway in search of the voice.

 

“Parkinson?” Hermione asked with a yawn as she entered her living room and saw the other witch's face in her fireplace. She wasn't sure if the scowl was a trick of the light, but she wouldn't be surprised to find that it wasn't. With a quick glance at the clock on her mantle and the realization that it was only a few minutes past seven, she returned the glare. It took a moment for her sleep-addled brain to catch up, but as the events of the previous night returned to her, Hermione dropped to her knees swiftly. “What's happened? Harry and Draco? Are they all right?”

 

“Of course they're all right,” Pansy drawled, throwing in an eye roll for good measure. “I told you I'd get it sorted, didn't I?”

 

Hermione tried to bite down her irritation, but it wasn't easy so early on a Saturday. “Well then what are you doing here?”

 

“To tell you that Draco and Harry were fine, for one. I know you were worried. They spent all last night making up. Quite loudly in fact,” Pansy added with a toothy grin. “Oh, and to invite you out for drinks, for two.”

 

Hermione blinked a few times, completely unsure of what to make of that.

 

“Oh not like that,” Pansy spat irritatedly. “Since we weren't able to have dinner last night, we're all going to out for drinks tonight instead. Meet us at the Leaky at half eight, we'll walk together from there.”

 

Hermione sighed. She wasn't sure she really wanted to spend anymore time with Parkinson than she already had, even if Harry and Draco would be there. As if reading her mind, Pansy gave a sigh of her own, much heavier and more dramatic than Hermione's original as if to say you think you're the only one suffering here?

 

“Granger, you're going to want to come. Draco and Harry have something to tell you that I'm sure you'll want to hear. And try to dress smartly,” Pansy eyed Hermione's oversized Chudley Cannons sleep shirt with a disapproving eye, “we're going someplace civilized.”

 

“Fine,” Hermione said resignedly. It was too early to argue with Parksinon, especially without having had any coffee. “Half eight, smart dress, got it,” she waved her hand dismissively and moved to turn the knob that would end the floo call.

 

“Granger, wait! One more thing!”

 

Hermione raised her eyebrows expectantly and waited.

 

“Look,” Pansy began, her eyes darting shiftily, “I don't do this often, so don't get used to it. But, I wanted to apologize. About last night. About what happened in the kitchen.”

 

Hermione could tell this was difficult for her, but said nothing. Partly because she wanted to hear what Parkinson was going to say and partly because she had no clue what to say herself.

 

“I know its important to Draco and Harry that we get on. And for a minute there, it wasn't so bad, was it? But then...” Pansy trailed off, searching for the right words. When she seemed to have found them, she continued on defensively. “Look, I'm not the most magically powerful witch there ever was. I'm used to getting what I want through intimidation. Or...” she trailed off again. Pansy's voice dropped low and her eyes were anywhere but on Hermione. “Or other means.”

 

The memory of being pinned to the wall by Parkinson rushed to the forefront of Hermione's mind from the back corner in which she'd shoved it the night before. And it came roaring back with a vengeance. As if she'd fallen into a pensieve, Hermione replayed the scene in her mind; fingers gripping her hips painfully, a firm thigh nudging it ways between her own, hot breath ghosting dangerously over her neck, the low growl of Pansy's voice in her ear. That had most certainly not been an attempt at intimidation; what had happened was clearly Parkinson's “other means” of getting what she wanted.

 

Hermione felt a blush creep up her neck as the realization hit her. Hermione had acquiesced to that sort of manipulation and by doing so admitted, in some tacit way, a sexual attraction to Pansy Parkinson. No, that was ridiculous. Even if it weren't for the fact that Parkinson was a woman, she was still Pansy Parkinson. The problem wasn't that she'd fallen for it, Parkinson was sure to have tons of experience in this sort of thing and Hermione really had been caught off guard. Who wouldn't be a bit thrown by the feeling of soft breasts pushed up against their own? It was only natural to be a bit distracted when someone else's fingernails trailed lightly over the curve of your hip. Hermione had reacted as any normal person in the context would have. That wasn't the problem. No, the problem was that now Parkinson would think that Hermione had some sort of latent lesbian crush about her. And that was just absurd.

 

So absurd that Hermione decided the best course of action was to completely ignore it and pretend the whole sordid incident had never happened.

 

Realizing that she'd let too long a moment pass, Hermione fought down her blush. “No need to apologize, Parkinson,” she said dismissively, hoping that Pansy would mistake the slight break in her voice for floo interference. “I'm not even sure what you're talking about.”

 

“What?” Pansy asked in surprise. “You don't remember—oh,” she cut herself off abruptly. “No, of course not,” she smiled lazily. “My mistake.”

 

Hermione had to fight to keep her blush down. Parkinson now held her gaze steady. Hermione thought her eyes were far too knowing, her smile far too smug.

 

“Either way,” Parkinson said coolly, “I apologize for any...discomfort I might have caused. I'll see you tonight.”

 

The fire flared. When the flames disappeared, so had Pansy. Hermione sat back on her heels and cradled her head in her hands. She needed to go back to bed. She could worry about drinks and Pansy Parkinson later. And if she fell asleep thinking of warm thighs and cool kitchen walls, it was no one's business but her own.

 

xxx

 

Hermione slipped her arm through Harry's as they strolled down Diagon Alley. The cool spring night had brought London's witches and wizards out in droves. Groups of people milled on street corners, children darted through the crowds, and couples lingered in doorways exchanging small kisses.

 

Draco and Pansy were walking a few paces ahead of Hermione and Harry. Despite Hermione and Harry's slower pace, they never lost sight of the other pair. Pansy and Draco took turns tugging each other to shop windows, pressing their faces against the glass like children outside of Honeyduke's. Hermione could hear them debating the upcoming season's colors and hem lines. It was a conversation neither she nor Harry were particularly interested in joining, so she took the opportunity to enjoy a rare moment alone with Harry. She listened as he vented about work and office politics, told her about the latest letter from his godson Teddy, and prattled on about the upcoming quidditch season.

 

And although she was happy to have Harry to herself for a moment, she couldn't help but keep one eye trained on the black-haired witch before her.

 

Draco and Pansy stopped in front of Madame Malkin's, no doubt turning up their noses disdainfully at the ready to wear robes in the window. An elderly witch in bright purple robes waddled out of the store. Her hair was glamored to match her robes and cradled in her arms she carried a shockingly purple crup. Hermione watched as Draco leaned in to whisper something in Parkinson's ear. Pansy's eyes followed the old witch down the street as she leaned into Draco, trying to catch his whispered words. Her eyes widened comically and she let out a shrill shriek of giggles.

 

“Draco, you're horrible!” she chided with a slap on his arm. But Hermione could tell by her tight-lipped smirk that despite her words, Parkinson didn't really think that what Draco had said was all that horrible.

 

Hermione sneaked a glance at Harry, who was also watching the scene before him. “How long is she going to be here?” she asked, attempting to sound disinterested.

 

Harry didn't fall for it, he knew her too well. “She's really not that bad, Hermione. You should give her a chance,” he said gently.

 

Hermione shrugged but didn't respond. She didn't want to have a conversation about Parkinson, especially not now and especially not with Harry. It wouldn't take him long to figure out that something was bothering Hermione, something beyond schoolyard grudges. And until Hermione knew just what it was, she wasn't ready to talk about it.

 

“So, Parkinson said that you had something exciting to tell me?” Hermione asked, changing the subject. “Spill it, Harry,” she said with a playful nudge.

 

“I'll tell you when we get there,” Harry said, returning her gentle nudge with one of his own.

 

“Keeping secrets now, are we?” she raised her eyebrows. “You've been spending too much time with Slytherins,” she teased.

 

“Not a secret,” he grinned. “A surprise.”

 

Hermione smiled and strengthened her grip on Harry's arm as they moved down the street. No matter what happened, at least she'd always have her Harry.

 

xxx

 

 _This place is rather nice,_ Hermione admitted to herself begrudgingly. She'd been initially wary when Pansy and Draco had turned and headed down Knockturn Alley. She'd been the opposite of comforted when Parkinson had turned and smirked, “Don't you trust me, Granger?” Harry had squeezed her arm and explained quietly that although nestled between two dark arts bookstores, the bar they were going to was decidedly neutral. They relied on the seedy neighborhood to give their establishment an air of danger, but in the end, the owners and employees were all above board.

 

Pansy had greeted the hostess with a swift kiss on each cheek. They were immediately whisked to a table in the back corner. Before they'd even had a moment to settle into their chairs, Pansy order a bottle of French goblin made wine. Hermione didn't know much about wine, but the way that Draco's eyebrows shot into his hairline let her know that Parkinson's order was unusual.

 

“Pansy, that's extravagant. Even for you,” he whispered.

 

“Only the best for you, darling,” she waved her hand. “Besides,” she said leaning in with a conspiratorial smile, “Colette forgot to take me off her Gringott's account.”

 

“Then we must remember to toast in the forgetful bitch's honor,” Draco winked, and received a blinding grin in turn.

 

A waiter in neatly pressed black robes appeared a few moments later, levitating a tray with the wine and glasses beside him. They sat silently as he filled the glasses. With a deep bow, he departed in silence.

 

“To the end of old relationships,” Draco said, raising his glass into the air, his grey eyes fixed on Pansy. Parkinson eyes flashed briefly, then narrowed. “And to the beginning of new ones,” he added with a sly smile. He caught Hermione's eyes and titled his head towards her. She wasn't quite sure what Draco had meant by the toast, but she smiled and returned the nod.

 

“Cheers!” Harry said, just a little too loudly. A chorus of cheers went up around him and everyone sipped their wine in contended silence. Hermione found herself wishing she knew more about wine. She knew what she was drinking was good, but that she didn't quite appreciate how good. It was clearly something she'd have to research if Parkinson insisted on sticking around.

 

Something glittering on Harry's hand as he lowered his glass caught her eye.

 

“Harry, is that a—since when did you start wearing jewelry?” Hermione asked, reaching out to grab his hand and study the small silver band on his ring finger. Her stomach twisted into knots and she quickly looked at Draco's hands. The signet ring he always wore on his right hand was in its usual place, but a small silver band mirrored Harry's ring on his left hand.

 

“Oh my god,” Hermione gasped. Realization hit her as all the air rushed from her body. “Are those—are you—” she could even get the words out correctly with all her excitement. “Harry! Why didn't you tell me?!” she nearly yelled as she leaped from her seat and swallowed Harry in a vicious hug.

 

“I knew she'd figure it out and ruin the surprise,” Pansy said from behind her wine glass as Hermione abandoned Harry to wrap her arms around Draco in turn. “Granger, sometimes you're too clever for your own good.” Hermione glanced at Parkinson, expecting to find the woman's face distorted with her signature sneer. Instead, Pansy's expression was one of pleased amusement.

 

She didn't have time to waste trying to figure out what was going on in Parkinson's mind. Nothing could ruin this moment. Harry and Draco were going to be married. “I am surprised!” she protested with a happy laugh. “I can't believe it! And I can't believe you didn't tell me, Harry!”

 

“Well, I thought I should ask Draco first,” Harry said with a sheepish grin. “But the nosy bastard had to go snooping through my things and ruin it.”

 

“I was not snooping,” Draco pouted. “I was _cleaning,_ Harry. You might want to try it sometime.”

 

“So that's what last night was all about? Who is—what was his name? Wisteria?” Hermione asked.

 

“He's a jeweler, a very famous wizarding one at that.” Pansy answered, although Hermione hadn't been asking her. “When Draco told me that was the name he'd found in Harry's pocket, I knew all his silly fears were completely unfounded.” She sent Draco a smirk that screamed _I told you so._ Draco stuck out his tongue.

 

Hermione sat back in her seat and surveyed the table before her. She no longer cared that Parkinson was there, she was just _too happy_ for Harry and Draco to let anything ruin her good mood. When Pansy flagged down the waiter to order another bottle of wine, Hermione let her glass be refilled again and again. They toasted to Harry and Draco, to Colette's bank account, to Frank Wisteria, to purple haired witches with purple crups. Hermione decided that if there were ever a night to get drunk on pretentious overpriced wine, tonight was it.

 

xxx

 

“Don't look now, Pans,” Draco said in a slurred whisper. “But that man over by the bar is staring at you.”

 

Despite Draco's instruction, Pansy instinctively turned. The man raised his glass and Pansy returned his greeting with a polite nod.

 

“Not bad,” she said with a shrug as she turned back towards the table. With a practiced gesture and a slight shimmy, Pansy tugged at the top of her black dress, revealing a few extra inches of cleavage. She spent a few moments adjusting her neckline and gave a decisive nod of approval when satisfied.

 

Hermione did not stare at the newly revealed flesh or notice the way Parkinson's breasts threatened to spill over the top of her dress. Instead, she took a large sip of her wine.

 

“What are you doing?” Draco hissed quietly. “Please don't tell me you're going back to men.”

 

“Of course not,” Pansy said as looked down to survey her work. “You of all people should know that's not how it works. I just want a little attention darling, is that so wrong?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

 

Draco rolled his eyes.“Tart,” he muttered under his breath, although a hint of a smile played at his lips. A half-second later he gave a surprised yelp and glared at Pansy. From Parkinson's far too innocent expression it was easy to see that she had pinched him. “Oh Merlin, here we go,” Draco groaned as the man from the bar began his way towards their table.

 

“Hello,” he said to Pansy as if she were sitting alone. He had beady black eyes, sandy brown hair, and wore a corduroy blazer over a pair of muggle denims. Based on the light scruff, it looked as he hadn't shaved that morning. _It's not that he's ugly,_ Hermione thought as she appraised the man, _its just that he's not_ right. _Parkinson is all glamour and danger; he's just a regular bloke. There is no way she'd ever be interested in him._

 

Hermione found that thought strangely reassuring.

 

Hermione thought she might even feel bad for him, seeing as how well out of his league he was. That was until she saw his eyes flicker from Pansy's face to her breasts and linger for just a moment too long. _Pig._

 

“Tony,” he said by way of introduction and Hermione heard herself snort.

 

Pansy stared at his outstretched hand for a moment before holding her own out. But instead of taking his handshake, she held her hand up and waited. Tony blinked in confusion for a moment then took her offered hand. He leaned over to place a genteel kiss on top.

 

Seemingly placated for his lack of proper manners, Pansy flashed him in a winning smile. “I'm Millicent. But my friends call me Millie.”

 

Hermione looked away, feeling her mood sour. The wine that had sat pleasantly in her stomach was beginning to rebel, making her feel slightly nauseous. She wasn't sure the cause of the irrational feeling of jealousy that also stirred within her, but she was more than happy to blame that on the goblin-made vintage. She tried to catch Harry's eye, to share a look of disgust as the scene before them, but he was watching Tony and Pansy—no, Tony and _Millie_ —with amusement. Draco, however, looked bored.

 

Parkinson was slowly trailing her hand across her decolletage, her long fingers lightly tracing the lines of her clavicle. The movement was perfectly engineered to look flirtatious and carefree, as well as bring everyone's attention to the gentle swell of her breasts.

 

Hermione had been pointedly not looking, but now she couldn't look away.

 

She half heard Pansy and Tony continue their exchange of pleasantries, briefly looking up when Tony offered Harry and Draco a polite congratulations on their engagement. But the harder Hermione tried to tear her eyes away, the more stubbornly they stayed glued. It wasn't the first time she'd ever looked at another woman's breasts—sometimes they're hard not to notice. But it was the first time she could ever recall ogling them.

 

Her eyes swept down the line of Pansy's cleavage while she tried to imagine what lay underneath the form fitting dress. Parkinson wouldn't likely wear the same sort of utilitarian underwear that Hermione herself preferred. No, she probably wore lacy things that barely covered her and cost more than Hermione's whole outfit combined.

 

Hermione was sure they'd looking amazing.

 

Lost in a daydream about black lace and heaving chests, it took Hermione a moment to realize that Pansy's hand had stilled. Returning to reality with a few slow blinks, she looked up to find Parkinson staring at her, head cocked to the side and eyes questioning. The hint of a smile curved her lips while Tony prattled on about his position at Gringotts, but nothing about his story was amusing.

 

“Actually, Tom—” Pansy began, not breaking her eye contact with Hermione.

 

“—It's Tony.”

 

“Of course it is. Anyway, Tim, now that I think about it, this really is more of a private celebration between my friends and I. It was a pleasure to meet you though.”

 

Tony spluttered for a few moments, surprised by the terse dismissal. He turned on his heel and slunk back to the bar, muttering “bitch” under his breath.

 

“Besides,” Pansy said to no one in particular as she picked up her drink. She held Hermione's gaze over the top of wineglass, as if daring Hermione to look away first. “I seem to have gotten the attention I wanted.”

 

Hermione felt her face heat. She couldn't hold Parkinson's gaze any longer, even if she wanted to. She'd been caught. She'd been caught undressing Pansy bloody Parkinson with her eyes and the worst part was that she couldn't deny it—not even to herself. The sudden urge to run away and hide gripped her. Gryffindor courage be damned, there was nothing that could mollify this sort of mortification.

 

“I've—um—I've got to pee!” Hermione lied clumsily. Tossing her napkin on the table she got up, hoping the make a beeline to the Women's where she could quietly die of shame.

 

“I'll come with you,” Pansy said brightly, rising out of her chair with more grace than Hermione thought fair.

 

Hermione began the slow death march to the WC, refusing to turn around and acknowledge Parkinson's presence behind her. Hermione wanted so desperately to just disappear that she worried she might accidentally disillusion herself.

 

“Women,” she could hear Draco chuckle from behind them, “why is it that they always go to the loo in pairs?”

 

Hermione looked back at him. Although he asked the question, he looked as though he already knew the answer.

 

xxx

 

The second the door closed, Pansy turned and cast a silent locking charm.

 

Hermione turned around and braced herself. She'd let Parkinson speak first.

 

Pansy said nothing, but strolled over to the counter by the sink. Her heels made a loud clicking sound against the tiles of the floor that reminded Hermione of every time she had absently noted how shapely a tall pair of feels could make another woman's calf look. She wondered if Parkinson's calves were shapely, but didn't dare look. Not right now at least.

 

Using her hands to brace herself, Pansy hopped up and sat on the edge of the marble counter. The movement made her skirt ride up her thighs and Hermione chastised herself for noticing.

 

A long moment passed as Pansy scrutinized Hermione, her head cocked to the side again and her lips pursed in thought. The silence—and the tension it brought—was nearly driving Hermione mad. She was about to abandon her plan and break the silence when Pansy spoke.

 

“I saw how you were looking at me.”

 

“What?” Hermione stammered.

 

Pansy leaned back on the counter, arching her back slightly. She stared down at Hermione with cool, appraising eyes. “I saw how you were looking at me,” she repeated. “Like you were hungry. I know what that looks means,” she added, her full lips twisting into a sinful grin.

 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Hermione bluffed.

 

“No need to be so coy,” Pansy laughed. “I'm no stranger to that kind of look and I'm not offended by it. If anything, I'm intrigued. Who would have thought, Hermione Granger, lusting after little old me.”

 

Pansy waited for a response, but Hermione offered none. She had no clue what to say.. Maybe if she didn't let Parkinson goad her, the other woman would get bored and leave her alone.

 

“Would you like to see them?”

 

Hermione's head snapped up. “See what?”

 

“My tits, Granger. The ones you were staring at so ravenously a few minutes ago. Would you like to see them?” Even as she asked, Pansy reached behind her back and begun to pull down the zip of her dress.

 

Rooted in place by shock and anticipation, Hermione didn't say anything. She couldn't find the words to encourage Parkinson, but she couldn't find them to stop her either.

 

With great delicacy, Pansy slipped her arms free of her sleeves and pulled the top of her dress down so that the fabric bunched around the pale skin of her waist. He bra was made of black lace, just as Hermione had imagined.

 

The logical side of Hermione's brain shut down. The nagging voice inside that told her to stop, to be rational, disappeared and her instincts took over. She took a few cautious steps towards the counter and stood in front of Parkinson.

 

“May I?” she whispered thickly.

 

Pansy nodded and arched her back in offering.

 

Hermione trailed her hand down Pansy's right breast, tracing the line where the flesh and the cup met. The lace was soft, but Parkinson was softer. Hermione splayed her fingers to follow the curve and hold the swell the breast in her palm. She squeezed gently, just to see, and was pleased to find Pansy's breast both firm and yielding to her touch. Growing bolder, Hermione slipped her fingers underneath the lace of the bra and pulled the cup down, so that all of Pansy's breast spilled out.

 

“Fuck,” Hermione murmured as she dragged her fingernails over the newly exposed flesh. She watched as Pansy's alabaster skin bloomed red underneath her touch before fading to a pale pink.

 

“That can be arranged you know,” Pansy said, her voice huskier than Hermione had ever heard.

 

Hermione's explorations reached Pansy's nipple. They were large and pink, so different from her own small, brown ones, and yet so beautiful. Hermione rolled the stiff nub between her fingers, marveling at the way it hardened under her touch. Pansy gave a low moan and arched further. Hermione felt a surge of power coarse through her body. _She_ had been responsible for that sound. _She_ had made Pansy Parkinson moan. She wanted to see what other noises this woman would make for her. But—

 

“I've never done this before,” Hermione admitted softly as she released Pansy's nipple. She retreated slightly, but kept her hand on Parkinson's breast, slowly circling the aureola with her thumb. “Even if I wanted to....I don't think it'd be very good.”

 

Pansy caught Hermione's hand by the wrist. A moment of desperate panic overcame Hermione, thinking that Parkinson was about to throw her off, to tell her to bugger off and not come back until she had something proper to offer. But that was nothing compared to the panic she felt as Parkinson brought their joined hands down to the junction between her legs.

 

Pansy spread her legs slightly, causing her skirt to ride up further on her thighs. She guided Hermione's hand underneath the tight black fabric. Hooking her own fingers on the lace of her knickers, she pulled them aside.

 

Tentatively, Hermione reached out. She couldn't see what she was touching, but she knew by the slick, velvety texture that her fingers had slipped between Parkinson's folds and that Pansy was _drenched._

 

“I think you're doing a fine job so far,” Pansy purred.

 

Hermione could feel her knees weakening as she explored what she could of Pansy's wet heat. Parkinson hadn't even touched her, but Hermione's entire body felt overheated and alert. The familiar tension of unconsumed lust rolled in her stomach, her _want_ becoming so strong that it almost hurt as it sat in her belly.

 

Hermione muttered another awed curse when her fingers inched further between Pansy's folds and found her entrance. Pansy leaned back against the wall behind her and opened her thighs further in invitation. They both whimpered when Hermione's first finger slipped inside.

 

Parkinson was even softer and wetter from the inside. Even if Hermione had spent many lonely nights over the past few years with fingers stuck up her own cunt, it was nothing compared to this. She crooked her finger and began to stroke, searching for that spongy spot of tissue she was so familiar with on her own body.

 

“Merlin, Granger,” Pansy sighed as she began to roll her hips, trying to force Hermione's finger deeper inside herself. “I want to take you back to mine and give you a proper shag in an actual bed, but if you don't stop teasing me like this we're not even going to make it out of the loo.” She let out a throaty moan when Hermione slipped in a second finger and continued stroking. “I'm just going to throw you against the wall and take you right there.”

 

Hermione's eyes snapped open at the mention of walls. Her mind went flashing back to the moment when all this madness had started—barely more than twenty-four hours previous—when she'd first felt the uncomfortable stirring of desire for Parkinson as she was pressed up against the kitchen wall with Pansy's thigh between her legs.

 

Before she could react, Parkinson lunged forward and grabbed Hermione around the waist, catching her in a crushing kiss that threatened to knock the breath straight out of her. Hermione's hand was caught between Pansy's thighs, but this was not the kind of kiss one could multitask during. Pansy's insistent mouth demanded her full attention and Hermione had no problem letting herself get swept away in the urgency of it all. She hadn't been kissed with such fervor in years. She wasn't entirely sure she'd ever been kissed like that.

 

Pansy broke the kiss to pull Hermione's hand from between her legs and hop down from the counter. Threading her arm through Hermione's, she whispered, “Hold on.”

 

Hermione felt the familiar pull of apparition and the bathroom disappeared with a loud crack.

 

They arrived moments later in what Hermione immediately recognized as Harry and Draco's guest room. But before she could do anything more to gain her bearings, she was roughly pushed backwards. Her back hit the wall behind her.

 

“Here's how its going to go,” Parkinson's voice was low and throaty as she pressed Hermione into the wall. She didn't have to force her leg between Hermione's thighs, Hermione's legs parted easily for her. “I'm going to fuck you up against this wall. I'm going to show you exactly how to fuck another woman.” Pansy purred and Hermione groaned. “You're a quick study, aren't you Granger? Brightest witch of our age, they say. I'm going to show you exactly what to do and—see that bed over there?—after that we're going to go over there and you're going to show me just how much you've learned. Wouldn't you like that, Granger?”

 

Hermione bit her lip to try and stifle the very undignified whimper she was about to make and nodded. She'd like that very much.

 

“Wait,” Hermione whimpered, something in the back of her brain was trying to reach the front, but it was hard to think with the way that Parkinson was sucking on the thin skin of her neck. “Harry and Draco—we just left them at the bar.”

 

Parkinson gave a short laugh and resumed nibbling her way up the column of Hermione's throat to the shell of her ear. “You maybe the brightest witch of age, but you're not the only one who can put two and two together. Draco's a smart lad, I'm sure he'll figure out where we've gone.”

 

xxx

 

Twenty-five miles away in a posh magical bar in a seedy magical neighborhood, Harry looked worriedly at his watch. “They've been in there a long time. Do you think we should go check on them, make sure they haven't hexed each other to death?”

 

Draco laughed and raised his hand into the air, trying to catch the attention of their waiter. “I'm sure they're fine, Harry. Let's order another round. I really don't think we should head home anytime soon.”


End file.
